“Snapshot Saturday”

The grizzled old trapper dropped to the ground, took careful aim through the brush and with a gentle squeeze released the death messenger amidst a rolling cloud of white, sulfurous stench. Rheumatism hampered getting up. His empty rifle served as a crutch of sorts. The thin smile on his dark-tanned, whiskered face foretold of the work ahead. Somewhere in the mountains, in the Year of our Lord, 1836.